Out of Dark

I thought it was the dark that tore me apart. I thought it was the terrible shape of the night, the thick sculptable nothingness. But no, it was the thin tinny morning. It was the watery coffee and the boring paper and the little dingy flowers on the tablecloth.

It was the forced domestication of sadness: I am sorry for your loss. It’s hard, losing a friend. He lived a good long life. 

No. He lived a beautiful life. And beautiful lives don’t fit into graves. 

I wrote the eulogy in the dark. I could barely see the words. But they flowed, lopsided from my pen. I wrote that he had lived a beautiful life. I wrote that his body was beautiful, his corpse. But in the morning the words wouldn't show themselves. Did I put them under my bed? In my heart?  

Fed up with those who could openly weep, I walked down to the water. I hurtled stones into the unblemished grey. And after, I sat down on the sand. And after, I wrapped my arms around my legs, feral and broken. I wanted to retrieve my stones. I wanted to dive under and find something precious, something warm and round and solid.

I walked to the edge, reaching down, across, into the salty water. I needed to wash my face, to be wet and without vestiges. 

The next night, in the dark, in the rich deep dark. I found myself staring at his grave. Polished marble is as human as polyester. And he was not human. I took an axe to his grave. I dug my hands into his dirt.